Chapter Text
Gwayne often claims that his favorite spot in Old Town is the highest point of the tower. Ormund knows it is the window bench in his rooms at the highest point of the afternoon. To this, Gwayne calls Ormund a “snobby pedant”, but it’s hard for Gwayne to make a stern argument as he stretches out in the sun, curled around various satin pillows, looking for all the world like a lady’s cat.
For the sake of the realm, Ormund decides to keep this observation to himself. Such discipline, the Lord Hightower has.
“I do not mean to condescend, beloved.” Ormund says instead, taking small steps to where Gwayne lounges. A book of romance lays open on his lap.
“Oh, you mean to condescend.” Gwayne huffs, voice still gravelled from his afternoon nap. “Condescension is your default tone.”
“Not at all.” Ormund is close enough now that, if he wanted to, he could reach out and feel the soft edges of Gwayne’s hair. “My tone is only ever filled with deference and admiration around you.”
Gwayne rolls his eyes, but Ormund can tell by the corners of his mouth have softened him. Hightowers are trained from a young age to understand even the most minute changes of the face. Gwayne shifts, making room for Ormund on the seat and Ormund falls beside Gwayne at once, sitting just at Gwayne’s hip, and immediately leaning over to take off his boots.
“Difficult meeting, I presume?” Gwayne says, setting the book aside and rubbing a hand down Ormund’s back.
“I fear I am surrounded by imbeciles of the most extreme kind.” Ormund peels off his boots quickly, but careful not to crease the fine leather. “I dare not speak of it, lest I doom us both to their foul stench.”
As Ormund finishes his boots, and begins taking off his rings, Gwayne skillfully undoes the golden chains around Ormund’s chest, slim fingers steady even when unclasping from behind.
Soon, Ormund is free of all his burdens, and he is laying too, in the warmth of the sun, curled into Gwayne’s chest.
Gwayne runs his fingers through Ormund’s hair, “You must be rid of Arrel Bayle. He knows little about ships, and even less how to use them. Simply because he served your father, does not excuse the cost of your time, and, I’d wager, a fair amount of gold.”
Ormund sighs, tension draining from his shoulders as Gwayne scratches his scalp, “I would love nothing more, but to dismiss him, I would also lose support of the Bayles. We could not afford that.”
“Unless you replace him with Barrish Coy.” Gwayne says, softly. He removes his hand from Ormund’s hair, instead burying himself deeper into his pillows so that Ormund is able nose at his neck. “The Coy’s have much increased their wealth this past year. Barryish is the third son, with no title or inheritance. If you elect him as your new Master of Ships, you will not only earn the Coy’s wealth, but also their gratitude and loyalty for giving Barrish standing.”
“The Coys are new money.” Ormund breathes deeply Gwayne scent, digging himself further into Gwayne’s body. “It would sully Hightower prestige.”
“So new that no one can remember their origins.” Gwayne shoots back. “We must not let our prejudice get in the way of our prosperity.”
Ormund hums, eyes closing. “You smell different.”
Gwayne laughs. “That is what happens when one is with child.”
Ormund grumbles. His favorite smell has always been Gwayne, from the milky scent of him when they were children, to the fresh flowers that bloomed after he presented. Throughout the day, Ormund is often seen holding a white handkerchief to his nose and mouth. The cloth is covered in Gwayne’s desirable scent. Gwayne carries a few extra of his favor inside his doublet for that exact purpose. When Gwayne is annoyed with Ormund, the handkerchiefs disappear, and Ormund is forced back to the days when all head was his silver pomander and pressed lavender; the smell is never so thorough.
Sometimes, before or after one of Gwayne’s heats, Ormund bottles up Gwayne’s slick and holds it close for many days. Gwayne vocally finds this to be a great perversion, face often going a deep red when Ormund collects the slick for himself, but it’s an open secret. His advisors and servants say nothing as Ormund becomes much more amenable, and the council becomes that more productive.
“Will it go back to the way it was?” Ormund asks, sounding even to his own ears, like a petulant child.
Gwayne laughs again, his voice bright like a bell. “I could not say, this is my first time.” Gwayne shuffles down, so that his face lies besides Ormund’s. “Alicent claims that her scent shifted from honeysuckle to honeywine after her pregnancy, but I do not know if any nose but Rhaenyra’s could sense it.”
Ormund hums, wrapping an arm firmly around Gwayne’s waist. “You only smelled of garden before, but now I can smell something else. Wet stone.”
“Perhaps rain.” Gwayne yawns, stretching once more before settling himself in Ormund’s arms. “That does not sound so terrible. Rain in a garden.”
Now it is Ormund running his hands through Gwayne’s hair. At only one month of pregnancy, the ordeal has already left Gwayne exhausted.”
“I hope it changes back.” Ormund whispers knowing, of course, that Gwayne is already asleep.